Love's First Light (27 page)
Maybe it wasn’t too late for love after all.
STACIA MET HER mother in the hall.
“Ma Mère! You look wonderful!”
Suzanne grasped her youngest to her in an embrace. “Merci, my dear. And you look like the most beautiful maiden in Paris. Are you anxious to be going to such a famous salon?”
Stacia was dressed in the height of fashion, in a high-waisted gown of white muslin with black rickrack around the collar, waist, and hem. Her bonnet was white and voluptuous in its ruffles and lace, leaving plenty of room for her wispy fringe to fall, dark and shining, against her forehead. She wore her hair partly up and partly down, with ringlets of russet brown framing her cheeks and forehead and hanging down around her shoulders. She brandished an unopened umbrella with one hand and grasped her mother’s wrist. “We must hurry! We can’t be late!”
Suzanne looked absently at the hallway pendulum clock. “Let us make haste. Have you said good-bye to Scarlett?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Now let us go.”
They arrived by a hired carriage at the marketplace, where they tumbled out in a froth of skirts. Once there, they scanned the area for Jasper. Suzanne spotted him first. “There he is.” They stared in astonishment as they saw the effort he had put into his dress. Black trousers, a white shirt, cravat and waistcoat, trimmed in green and a long green tailcoat. Upon his gray head sat a fine tri-cornered black hat.
Suzanne quickly grasped Stacia’s arm and set the tone. Chin up, shoulders back, they walked with all appearance of grace and stateliness toward him. Suzanne reached out to grasp his hands. “Jasper. Are we not late? I do hope we are not late.”
Jasper shook his head at them, making Stacia stare at the bald spot on the top of his head as he removed his hat.
“Not at all. You are a vision, my dear.” He seemed to have forgotten Stacia was there, for he didn’t comment on her appearance at all. “Come, I have a carriage waiting.”
Stacia looked quickly down, commanding herself that the corners of her mouth didn’t rise. The man only had eyes for her mother.
THE CARRIAGE GLIDED over the cobblestone road, making Stacia think of a ride through the clouds. It stopped abruptly at a tall, brick building on the city’s fashionable side of town. As they stepped down from the carriage, Stacia wondered if the visit would go as smoothly as the ride.
A man in Révolutionary dress met them at the door, complete with red stocking cap and one red and white and blue circular cockade attached to his lapel. He wore a red shirt, white pantaloons, and a long, blue coat that touched the white turned-over tops of his dark blue boots. Stacia pressed her lips together as he swept them inside with the words, “Welcome to the salon of the Révolution.”
Her mother gave Stacia a worried glance and then plunged into the dimly lit entryway. Her mother leaned close to whisper in Stacia’s ear. “It will probably be best to just look pretty and not say too much.”
Stacia rolled her eyes.
Yes, as long as they don’t rile me.
Yes, as long as they don’t rile me.
As they entered the salon they saw a crowd of about fifteen, most of them dressed in the colors of the new government, though the women had far more freedom in their choice of dress. Jasper grasped Suzanne’s arm in his as if he wouldn’t soon let go and led her about the room, making the introductions to his neighbors, Rene and Marguerite Basset. They, in turn, introduced the three of them to Madame Récamier.
She was a lovely, younger woman, her eyes twinkling with intelligence and mischief as she hugged Stacia’s mother. She kissed Stacia on the cheek and whispered, “Oh good, another pretty bird in the room to distract them.” Her effort was friendly as she waved them to the empty chairs next to her.
A man sat down next to Stacia, stretched a large, muscular leg displayed in his tight breeches and stockings out so that his foot nearly touched hers. Stacia slowly sat further back into her chair and moved her feet away.
“Citizen Bonham,” the man thundered. “You are new to Paris, yes? I know I would remember you if I had seen you before.”
Stacia blushed. Why didn’t the silly man quiet his voice? He was gaining the attention of all in the room. She inclined her head and softened her voice to a near whisper. “We have come from Carcassonne.”
“And what brings you to the city?”
Stacia glanced at her mother, seeing no help there. She shrugged, “We’re come to see my sister’s uncle, Robespierre.”
The room itself seemed to gasp, and now all eyes and ears truly were on her face.
After the startled expression left the giant man’s face, a look of speculation crossed over it. “And what business do you have with Robespierre?”
Stacia’s heart was pounding in her chest. Something told her the next words she uttered were very important to the room full of people surrounding her. Something else told her it would be better to charm than rile. She dimpled prettily and shook the curls resting against her bosom. “Why, good sir, Robespierre is a distant relative, and my mother and sister and I heard of all of the excitement happening here and decided we couldn’t miss another moment of it.”
She leaned forward as if to tell him a great secret, smiling slightly and allowing the feeling of suppressed glee to enter her eyes. “He was rather put off at first. He
can
be so terrifying.” She shrugged delicately tilted her head to one side. “But he seems to be coming around.” She glanced at her mother, hoping and praying she would understand what Stacia was doing and play along. “He’s grown quite used to us by now, hasn’t he, Mother?”
can
be so terrifying.” She shrugged delicately tilted her head to one side. “But he seems to be coming around.” She glanced at her mother, hoping and praying she would understand what Stacia was doing and play along. “He’s grown quite used to us by now, hasn’t he, Mother?”
Her mother looked alarmingly perplexed, so Stacia plunged forward before she could speak. “Why—” she paused as the whole room waited, clearly in anticipation of further shock—“I do believe he’s becoming quite . . .
hen-pecked.”
She turned back and let the corners of her mouth rise in a triumphant gesture at the room. “All bark and no bite, that sort of thing.” She stared at them, smiling and blinking and waiting.
hen-pecked.”
She turned back and let the corners of her mouth rise in a triumphant gesture at the room. “All bark and no bite, that sort of thing.” She stared at them, smiling and blinking and waiting.
Finally the man beside her burst into laughter. It seemed a signal of some sort, as the other men and women seemed to allow their tension out in a wave of giggles and laughter. Stacia knew they were laughing at her, not with her, but that had been the goal: to make herself look like a half-wit, a young woman incapable of political intrigue.
She was only too pleased it had worked.
Turning back around her gaze briefly rested on Madame Récamier. The woman smiled with closed lips at Stacia and gave her a little nod. Stacia looked away, but knew there was one woman in the room she had not fooled.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Émilie St. Laurent. Yes, that was her name. Scarlett—the pretty woman who had plunged into her life like a breath of fresh air with open, unafraid eyes and a stomach so large Émilie could hardly tear her gaze from it—had said it. Reminded her who she was.
She wasn’t a servant girl. Not that she thought she couldn’t be or wouldn’t be again. It wasn’t that she deserved any other place in the world. She was lucky to be alive. But those words. Those three words had reminded her that she didn’t belong in Robespierre’s household. Somehow, in the blur of the last few years, she’d forgotten the girl she had once been.
Émilie made her way down the narrow street, the place where her brothers used to play, preferring the bustling life there above their quiet chateau gardens. She’d peered out of the tall, mullioned glass of an upstairs window, sewing her sampler—or pretending to do so, but really wishing, wishing so hard, that she could be allowed out there with them. A boy’s freedom. How she’d longed for it.
Christophé had led her down this same street that night. The night they ran from their family ruin. She looked back and forth, still puzzled by his words. Shouldn’t there be a red door? Had she heard him wrong?
It was the only place she could think to go now. To the red door down this quaint, familiar street. Since fleeing the marketplace and Scarlett and everything familiar, she’d come back to this place. Since running away from Les Halles she’d waited in the shadows of the gardens of the chateau until dusk, when she could move about without fear of being captured.
But as she searched yet again, she found the same hopeless answer: There was no red door.
At least, none she could see.
As she’d returned to this street over and over, knowing her brother would never have lied to her, memories stirred. It was strange. Color. She had noticed at an early age that people would point to something and say it was red or green . . . but she had always seen blue or gray where they pointed. She’d not thought too much about it until now. But her fruitless search tickled her memory, forcing her to recall that she’d always seen colors in a different way.
A little girl was walking ahead of her. She was playing alone along the path by her home, rolling stones as far as she could across the cobblestones. The girl’s mother appeared from around the front door and called to her in a sharp voice.
“Rinslet? Come in, child. It grows dark.”
The woman took a long, suspicious glance at Émilie, who waved as if she knew the woman to put her off. Rinslet started to run away, but something in Émilie rose up, some fear of being left alone on this street looking for the door again. With all her strength she pushed air and sound out of her throat, speaking for the first time in years. “Rinslet?”
The girl stopped and turned toward Émilie. “Would you like to play a game?” Her voice sounded raspy from nonuse, but the child nodded eagerly, forgetting her mother’s demand.
Émilie bent to the girl’s level. “The doors on this street. Are any of them red?”
The girl was about eight and looked up and down the street in concentration. “I don’t think so.”
“Run quickly up and down and see if you can find a red door.”
“What will you give me as a prize if I find it?” The child quirked up her nose at Émilie.
Émilie dug into her pocket and pulled out one of Robespierre’s coins. She held it out in her palm, letting it shine in the fading light. “If you run very fast, I will give you this.”
The child took hold of the challenge, looking at Émilie with certainty in her young eyes. She did run fast, faster even than Émilie could have run. She ran all the way down the street to the end of the block, looking at every door, then crossed the street and ran, lightning fast, down the other side. She arrived at Émilie’s side huffing and puffing, trying to catch her breath. “There it is—” she pointed just down the street on the other side. “It’s faded red, but it’s a red door.” She held out her hand for her prize.
Émilie handed over the coin, emotion clogging her throat. It was just where Christophé had pointed that night so long ago. “Merci.”
The child bounded away, as she gained entrance to her house, Émilie heard the complaining of a mother with a dawdling child.
Her heart pounded in her chest as she made her way, step by slow step, toward the pointed-out door. It did look different than the brown doors. A grayish sort of green. And so her suspicions were finally confirmed. She didn’t see things as others did. It explained her mother’s exasperation at her attempts at needlepoint and sewing of any kind. It explained why she sometimes seemed befuddled by instructions that others found no difficulty following. It explained why they said her father had green eyes but she’d only seen a grayish color.
Father . . .
Thinking of him had the usual effect. She wanted to back up from life, crawl into a hole, and hide forever. He’d always been the one to bend down and whisper sweet words into her ear. He was the one she loved to tilt her head back so as to admire how tall he was, how grand. He was the one to sit in her little chairs and attend her tea parties, pretending as she did that the dolls were real and the tiny cups held enough tea to fill them. He brought flowers each time she invited him. Varying colors that she only now realized must have looked different to him. But he hadn’t cared. He wouldn’t care now . . . if he were alive. He’d just loved her.
Émilie fought back the tears, demanding of herself some inner strength that she knew she shouldn’t need at her age. But she wasn’t one to feel sorry for herself. Instead, she walked up to the door, took a deep breath, ignored the pounding of her heart in her ears, and knocked as hard as she could.
There was no answer.
She beat again, looking over each shoulder to see if anyone was coming down the street. She did not want to hide in the bushes of this street in the dark ever again.
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